the death of beauty
by Mushroom-ness
Summary: "Come out, Alana. I won't hurt you." Maybe if she stopped breathing. [vampire!AU. Hannibal x Alana. hannibloom. vampire!Hannibal Lecter.]


**author's note:** Okay, so I was listening to the song Wine Red, by The Hush Sound. And my brain made a weird-ass connection and my laptop gave birth to this monstrosity.

This probably won't make much sense because: 1. I don't think I was mostly conscious when I wrote this, I was maybe 30% alive at the time. 2. I ate three strawberry milk jelly cups, a bowl of crab and corn soup, and a shit ton of choc*nuts while I was writing, I don't think those are very uh nice when together in the same stomach. and 3. I ate bopis while I was editing, for those of you that aren't in the Philippines, bopis is a spicy-savory dish that consists of lungs, hearts, and livers.

Um. Yeah.

* * *

**I.**

His voice like velvet blood and honey, eyes like dying cinders. Alana wonders about chances and graveyard dirt, of screaming hurricanes and the pounding in her ears. There's the sound of a step taken in her direction and she clenches her hands into fists, keeps herself from screaming. She bites her lip, doesn't_ make a sound_, she's biting hard and nervous. She hopes it doesn't bleed.

"Come out, Alana. I won't hurt you." She imagines his red eyes flashing in the dark, like a jungle cat looking at its prey in blackest night. He might be licking his lips. She shudders.

_Liar, liar, heart on fire, die in the pits of Hell._ Alana thinks of dripping shadow and white hot fire, Hannibal Lecter's accent. When the sound of footsteps comes closer, she hopes it's a fast and painless death.

He doesn't cast a shadow, but he's _there_ and everything is static cold and someone saying "Oh, there you are."

He picks her up off the floor like she's nothing, less than nothing. She whimpers and her brain is composed of adrenaline and _oh God, please._ He grins at her and its more of a showing of sharp, ripping teeth than anything resembling joy.

"Be a dear, Miss Bloom," he says, velvet blood and honey. His breath tickles her neck, the scent of apples, bright and crimson. Alana realizes that Hannibal could have killed her a thousand times over but he chose to wait, wait and taste her sweat soaked fear.

"Smile for me."

**II.**

After darkness, there is bright, searing light. There is shock, awareness. Red satin sheets and a pearl grey nightgown, Alana dares to sit up, stand up, get off the bed and _move_. Maybe she has a chance, maybe if she stopped breathing. The curtains are open and outside the skies are red and orange, yellowish like sickness or someone dying. It's sad, twisted humour because of reasons she understands too well. Maybe she'll die today.

There are black slippers on the floor, just her size. She goes for the bedroom door and thank God it's unlocked. The corridor walls are white and she sneers because someone (no, some_thing_) like him isn't worthy of that colour. When she takes a step out of the room, she hears something like crickets chirping and leaves rustling but that can't be right, there's no wind and the sound is coming from somewhere inside the house.

She runs, only to get cut off by flickering flame and a beast pretending to be a man.

She doesn't make it to the front door.

**III.**

The next time she wakes up, it's night time, the sky black, the moon full and lonely with no stars to share the horizon. There's a tray of food on the bedside table, red and rich and meaty.

The door is still unlocked.

**IV.**

Reluctant, she admits to herself that he's a beautiful man (vampire, _monster_, there's an endless number of terms and words for what he is but she has to keep reminding herself. Has to, or she might forget and make a mistake, forget and lose her humanity).

He's stopped serving her meals in her room (Alana doesn't know when she started referring to it as _her_ bedroom, as if she owned it, as if she'll stay) and instead sends someone (probably another some_thing_) to fetch her during mealtimes. They dine across each other on the long dining room table. Sometimes Hannibal restrains her with silk scarves. A lesson in posture, he says. She knows better than to respond to his attempts at polite conversation.

She scowls at him when he says her name. He lectures her about rudeness and etiquette.

She's never seen him eat something other than red and meat. He occasionally gives her beer, like he used to. She doesn't drink it, sometimes she doesn't eat.

"_You're rebellious, feisty. I like that._"

He drinks wine during meals, or something that looks like wine.

**V.**

He takes her out to the garden (it's more of a forest) every other morning, she wants to ask why he doesn't burn, or maybe the sun fears him too. But she's afraid to speak so she looks at the trees and plants instead, feels horrified at the scarlet gashes on the trunks. _This garden once was perfect and he's ruined it, like the demon he is._

(She's like a cat, he tells her, curious. He sees it in her eyes)

It's been two weeks since the beginning of this, two weeks since she last spoke.

**VI.**

It's been a month, she isn't sure. Time passes slowly here, or maybe it's stopped, like in wonderland or Hell. Time doesn't matter and neither does living. Alana thinks about dying and maybe it wouldn't have been so bad and how will she do it. She's a smart woman (with no hope and nothing to live for). She'll figure it out, an easy way, a beautiful way.

Perhaps a blade to the pulse or a stake to the heart will set her free. He'll appreciate the latter, he likes theatricality.

She wonders if he'll save her, like some fallen angel, when she tries to kill herself.

(Slowly, slowly, she falls apart. _"Most psychology departments are filled with personality deficients, Doctor Bloom would be the exception."_)

**VII.**

She pushes a stake through her chest, not quite her heart, and maybe it'll buy her a little more than a little time before she dies. She wants to see if he'll try to save her, keep her ("_Curious, like a cat."_). She lies back on the crimson sheets and waits for her life to stain it darker. She's done being scared.

She waits for him in her bedroom, cold and dark and dead, like her heart and all the rest of her world. She feels warm then hot then cold on the wet satin.

(Surely, gradually, she falls apart and melts into a million drops of hope and droplets of blood pretending to be tears._ wine red: this is the death of beauty_)

She's losing light fast and just when she's about to go, she feels shifting in the dark and a breeze. There is the taste of blood in her mouth and it isn't hers. She laughs when she feels something sharp on her throat, a jagged lovely sensation. Alana Bloom will die and this will take her place.

The last thing she hears is him murmuring '_Gloria_' against her neck. _We lied, we can't go on._

_Give your immortality to me._

**VIII.**

They walk through his territory every other night, her hand in his. The gashes glisten on the tree trunks and she hears the dark speaking to her, singing. She laughs at the things it says and he smiles at her, _"what did it say, what is it telling you."_

He isn't talking but she can hear his voice echoing through her body, mind. Like a heartbeat, a pulse, her dark blood moving in her veins. _And there is discord in the garden, tonight._

There are moments when she feels of him and everything seems alive, like souls, like the wind laughs and the wolves cry and all the leaves are made of silver.

He's her world now, dead and dark and cold, like her heart.

She speaks and asks questions and he answers. Sometimes he laughs with her.

_This is the time and this is the place to be alive._

**IX.**

He's a beautiful man and he constantly tells her she's a beautiful woman, lips covered in scarlet and a hunger to match his own.

She's figured out the servants are human and they follow strict rules. _Never disturb Master Lecter before noon. Never disturb him after the first course of dinner is served._

They dine on things, animals, and people, red and rich and meaty. There is him at the head of the table, her on his right side. They smile with their teeth sharp and white, even in the candlelight. He sometimes serves her beer, like he used to. More often than not, they drink wine, or something that looks like it.

The silk scarves have gone from the dining room and are now used in her bedroom.

**X.**

There are times when she has trouble sleeping, nightmares of stakes through the heart and the old life, dying doves and lying lovers. In the bright darkness, she listens to the strains of a lullaby on harpsichord keys. She doesn't sleep with the curtains open anymore, she knows the moon is there, full and lonely with no stars to share the sky.

There is blood in her dreams, things that threaten to swallow her up. Old habits die hard and feelings from life before this.

A comforting thought, his bedroom door is unlocked.

**XI.**

This is her first time waking in his bedroom, it's strange and warm. His sheets smell of him and apples, dark and crimson. He tells her that she smells like cinnamon and spice, his lips wet against her throat, nothing but the sound of his mouth moving on her.

His walls are black and beautiful and it feels like eternal night. The curtains are drawn back, the sky turning colours, red and orange, yellowish. Like blood and flame and oil dancing on the horizon, light on his skin as he stands there, a maid in his arms, feral grin and Alana's cold dead heart flutters, death's head moths' wings flying inside of her.

"She broke the rules," Hannibal announces, purrs. "It was extremely rude of her to go poking around our rooms."

Alana beams at '_our_' because of reasons she understand too well. Sick, twisted humour that makes her smile, it doesn't matter. She's lost her humanity anyway. _Give your immortality to me_.

"Oh, has she now?" They grin at each other. "What's to be done about that?"

"I guess we're having breakfast in bed."

**XII.**

She's his world, his heart. Jagged and beautiful, crimson lips and a hunger to match his own, the smell of cinnamon and spice.

He's her heart, her world. Cold and dead and dark, his voice like velvet blood and honey, eyes like dying cinders.

_I'll set you up against the stars._


End file.
